Category: The Trip

As expected, the Albergue didn’t open until 0600 on the dot. Clunk, creak, clatter, then patter of feet. We were literally prisoners of the Vatican, banged up in ‘stir’ for the night. There were a few puzzled faces, geared up and ready to go at 0530, only to have to stand around and wait until the dungeon master appeared to free us. They didn’t ask the prior day, and to “assume” makes an “ass” out of “u” and “me”. Arf. Arf. I was stretching. They were pacing.

I’m on day one of three days collapsed into two to give me more time at the back end and in Finisterre. I am transiting part of the area called the Meseta, which is en route to Léon, the next significant destination.

It is soul-destroyingly boring. Much like a moonscape, but alas without the Lunar Rover. Nothing to see except mile-upon-mile of sun-bleached dirt and then more anaemic, unfriendly dirt.

And when you get into town, it’s so hot that the tarmac gives underfoot to my Tevas (imagine the problems with my stilettos…?) – and you can smell the oily discharged quite strongly. This uncomplimentary assessment is not my isolated, biased view, incidentally. It is the universally-held view of everyone here, that I, as unofficial, unelected, unaccountable spokesman (so European, no..?) am merely articulating. There was a lot of relief to have finished the day’s hiking. I know that some have cut this entire section out and chosen to take the bus to Léon. Pussies. Go big or go home. No middle ground.

Speaking of buses, I didn’t see any Koreans today. Maybe there’s a scheduled detour to an outlet mall…?

Redemption for the day’s travails is the piscina. Out of nowhere, in this one street, two dog, three car, four bar town, there’s a swimming pool. A humongous one. I’m guessing 27mx15m (weird, yes, but I measured and counted the squares in the fencing), with separate paddling pool, lifeguard, BBQ, fussball table and……bar. The lifeguard also moonlights as the barman and though he advertises cocktails, he’s unable to dispense them: a mixed-up mixologist.

Why someone put such a large structure in such a small town is beyond me. They did. It could have been 1/3 of the size and been more than ample, and I’m not sensing that the gene-pool here is going to produce the next Michael Phelps – if you feel me…? It’s here, as with much of the excess infrastructure, courtesy of Frau Merkel’s “free” €uros. My unit is nicely chilled and my tired legs feel great.

32km was a long way to walk with a heavy pack, in the heat and with nothing to occupy the mind but pain. Tomorrow will be the same but at least I’ll be able to leave at 0500+/- instead of the Fascista-mandated 0600 and knock some of the tedium out in the dark and cooler temperature.

It’s still a LONG, LONG way to Léon.

It’s beginning to cloud over (bit late for the pilgrims, eh, Big Yin..?). I’m going in for one last dip then back for dinner and zzzz.

Post script. Just after dinner, the Dominican Sisters offered a foot massage to pilgrims, which included moi. As I was waiting, I heard the saddest thing.

THUD!

A baby pigeon fell out of its nest, and without the strength to fly, it hit the ground right in front of the entrance to the Church. I’d have thought that the Powers That Be might have intervened on their own doorstep, but no. The little furry body shuddered and made a couple of final, sad sounds and was lifeless as the mother looked on from above the arch on the door. Now, I know the death of a baby pigeon ranks low by any measure of global relevance, but nonetheless, the timing and location were intriguing, so…..

I don’t “do” churches, but on this occasion, the confluence of events, free foot massage and avian death compelled me to do do. I’ve attached a couple of pictures of what is quite a warm and seemingly contemporary place of worship, located in a little town in the middle of nowhere. Vatican tendrils do indeed extend far.

Have a good night.

Day 14 Photo Gallery

That damned cathedral clock was directly across from the open windows at my Albergue in Hontanas, and it went off every hour on the hour throughout the night, and then on the half hour with a single chime. Good sense and decency would turn the contraption off at 2200 (like they do in Marylebone), but this is clearly God’s country and the Big Yin’s determined we should all pay some sort of penance. He succeeded. It was wholly-gratuitous and unspeakably annoying. I don’t think he or his acolytes take requests, however, so my complaints will fall upon deaf ears. Which reminds me of the definition of his primary acolyte, the “priest” – Paedophile Resident In Every Small Town – and the burden of proof remains against the Big Yin. Just sayin’.

“Talking to a blonde is like talking to a chicken. You just need the flashy object….”  Bobby Slayton, ‘The Pitbull of Comedy/Yid Vicious’.  My good friend, JDK, acquainted me with this man’s irreverent, offensive, acerbic talents and you can get a soupçon here:  Bobby Slayton . Don’t be shy. You know you want it. Better still, buy the DVD or the “Born to be Bobby” upload. Twisted genius. That was the extent of my cultural enlightenment today. Tomorrow, Sam Kinison. Stay tuned.

It was a long and hot 34km and started, as usual, in the dark. I didn’t speak to many people, or maybe….many people chose not to speak to me. Anyway, music/comedy formed a large part of today’s mental support mechanism. Annoyingly, my Bowers & Wilkins headset has chosen to only broadcast through the left ear, so I’m on the lookout for a new headset. There is limited retail therapy around here, so I am not optimistic about immediate gratification.

Shrinking 3 days into 2 seems to have propelled me into a different set of pilgrims, as well as into a completely new pain/discomfort band. New faces. I guess most of the old ones are in the prior cadre. I may do this again, just to buy more time in Finisterre. It’ll depend on the legs/feet. I got some off-the-shelf orthotics for 25 Euros from the ‘farmacist’. His Spanglish was far better than my Spanish. Hopefully they alleviate some of the pain. Lesson learned. Report tomorrow, as if any of you give a fuck.

No Koreans today. Again. Not really surprised. More Italians though.

The topography was interesting and testing. Immediately out of Hontanas, it was flat until Castrojeriz, the first coffee stop at +9.6km. I spent 45 minutes there, mostly because I came across a retired English couple who were delightful chatty, albeit at 0700, my “quiet time”.  Ask Doris about the generic response to intrusion into those special moments….. The landscape then climbed very quickly up to Alto de Mostelares at 900m (you could see the white trail ahead, etched into the brown mountain), then almost immediately, very sharply back down. That got the blood flowing and the knees talking to me.

Otero de Vega was the second coffee stop. Not much to say about it but soon after, I cut across the Canal Pisuerga and then the Canal de Castilla. The canals are interesting though they function for irrigation as opposed to transportation nowadays. Shame. They were a magnificent feat of engineering in their time, and still, for me, enduringly romantic. Pisguera was underwhelming but Castilla had a lot more structure and presence – however, given the width, I’m not sure how even two narrow boats going in opposite directions could pass with a decent margin of safety. You can’t see if the banks are sloping or linear, with adequate clearance. These canals clearly didn’t have wide-beams in mind when they were built.

The Castilla finally dead-ends into Fromista, my destination. As the pictures show, there is a huge change in elevation, but no functioning locks so I can only assume that they have left the elegant brickwork for show. Signs of different times?

Tonight, I’m in the municipal Albergue which seems to be packed like a tin of sardines, with a hostess who bears more resemblance to a frumpy Frau than a slender Señorita. Interpersonal skills to match. An early exit from the Albergue will mean not competing for facilities or enduring the morning’s digestive feedback from the consumption of the night before. Good deal.

Tomorrow should be flat and short, and end in Carrion de los Condes. Just under 20km.

As I close down, we’ve been invaded by the Dutch bicycle club, who’ve arrived en masse via bus. No Koreans. There are about 20 Dutch, all speaking the “Heugh ney ney hurdy gurdenen” most irrelevant language on the face of the planet. I don’t know why they persist with their local tongue. It’s as useful as Esperanto, Gaelic and Inuit. No one cares and they all speak better English than 80% of the UK residents. They’re off, bouncy, bouncy happy to terrorise the locals and regale them with their lengthy, but not-so-funny-to-the-non-Dutch stories of Oude Rode Ogen, smelly cheese and clog design, so good luck to them.

That’s it.  Fuckity bye.  Don’t forget to check out Bobby Slayton.

Day 15 Photo Gallery

 

Take a deep breath.

Relax.

Close your eyes.

Imagine a long, straight road. No traffic lights. No gas stations. No distractions. Endless fields of the same parched vegetation and scrub on each side. One, long, tarmac artery.

Another deep breath.

Then, imagine it is called the N-980 and you can walk right alongside it for 19.3km – and you would be with me on today’s leg.

I have very little to report for today’s hike – other than recommending Sam Kinison’s “Live from Hell” album, recorded shortly before his untimely death at the hands of a 17 year old drunk driver. Special mentions go to “Russians are Losers”, “JFK”, “Space Pussies”, “100 Hour War”, and “Don’t Swallow”. Kinison’s tombstone has an unattributed quote on it: “In another time and place, he would have been called a prophet”. Hmmm…..

It was intended as an easy day, and it was. My feet are recovering from yesterday’s ordeal and in anticipation of a similar ordeal tomorrow – taking advantage of long, flat stretches to give me more time in Finisterre. Decisions later on today.

The Coke machine on the way out of Villarmantero de Campos says I’ve done 371km and have a further 419km to Santiago, there after a further 90km +/- to Finisterre. Feels good but a lot of distance to go and a hard stop for vacation with Doris, Numpty and Maidrian on 25th August.

I splurged on accommodation today. In Carrion de los Condes, I shelled out €35 (vs €10 average) but I got my own room, my own loo, my own shower, my own towels, free soap, free shower gel and a TV. Everything will be used except the TV.

The calculus was simple. I left later than usual today at 0630 (yet even then I had to queue to perform basic functions) because I knew it was a short leg and didn’t want to arrive too early. Even with a stop in Villarmentero de Campos for the shittiest stale croissant I have ever had, the journey proved quicker than expected and I arrived at 1045. I could either hang around and wait for the municipal Albergue to open at 1300 or get checked in and use the time more constructively AND have an easier exit tomorrow morning. Easy-peasy.

There are more and more bus tours, dropping off clean, sweet-smelling, coiffured, spandex-clad porkers so they can do a bit of the Camino, sporting new sneakers and daypacks, and then stop off at their pre-arranged picnic points. Ugh! Today’s pension was about 50% pre-booked with these pikers and I suspect the problem becomes more acute the nearer to Santiago we get – so I need to get engaged in my own pre-planning with www.booking.com. However….there was a confirmed sighting of the Koreans of earlier posts, welded to their phones and battery packs as usual. Not a bead of sweat to be seen. Thibaud, dear boy, you are redeemed from your seemingly-unfounded, venomous accusations. You are a prophet. These pikers, “all the gear, and no idea”, just like my mucker in Henley, Ms Promiscuous Brompton.

Temperatures seem range between 16c and 33c (UK-people, sorry to rub that in, but it is my burden to carry, literally), getting pretty sticky from about 1000 onwards. Time to stock up on water and provisions for tomorrow. No water, coffee, tortilla, croissants, loo or people for the first 17km of the day.

Later.

Day 16 Photo Gallery

My expensive pension didn’t perform to expectations. A noisy French bunch continued to chatter into the night, their voices reverberating off the walls. I was unable to sleep for what seemed like ages, so I consequently slept in to catch up. That meant an unfashionably late 0700 departure, and 1320 arrival ~27km later, at another dot on the map called Terradillos de Templarios. Once again, our routing paralleled the highway.  Hard to get lost, hard to get interested.

The most interesting factoid I could dig up was that the 12-13km part of this route between Villotilla and Calzadilla is actually an old Roman road, the Via Traiana. The Via Traiana connected Astoria to Bordeaux, was built by Julius Caesar and as it is on what is effectively marshland, all the stone and rock for the foundation had to be brought in (from where I don’t know).

The high point of the day was meeting Una and breakfast at the Cafe Movil. Una is a 6 year old, brindle Boxer bitch. I asked the owners if she was friendly and if I could say hi/play and after that affirmative courtesy/safety check, I wrestled with her as only Boxer-people know. The Italians and the Australians who had been enjoying breakfast were aghast. WTF is that shiney-domed-doofus doing? Una was making scary, growling noises, doing downwards dog with a coiled spring as she launched herself at me in attempts to body check me, and jaws snapping away with bared teeth like a thresher on four legs – but her stump was wagging away throughout, and she was just having Boxer-fun. They thought I’d got sunstroke and gone doolally. Nothing of the sort. You just know, and so do the Boxers.

I’m going to try and finish “Le Freak” today. It’s Nile Rodgers’ book about Nile Rodgers. A great read, I have to say.  I may try and get round to a more fulsome review for those that care about black, drug-addled, Black Panther, disco, Thespian matters. I devoured a big chunk of it yesterday, to the point that I depleted my iPad down to 3% battery. Did you know that Claude Nobs is creator of the Montreaux Jazz Festival? Me neither. I thought it was a bad joke name like Claude Balls, Mike Hunt, Seymour Coochy, Anya Bakyabich or Harry Peratesteze, but apparently not. Learned that yesterday. Nile rocks.

So, in my €10 dormitory digs tonight, hoping for better luck on the sleep front as there is a generally-respected ‘lights out’ at 2200 protocol. Dinner served at 1800. I’ll be first in line; Bosch, get out of the way.  Towels to reserve your spot will do you no good!

I walked around in the obscene heat, doing my local due diligence…for you, my limited readership. Nothing. Nada. This is another town with a large church, a road running through it and little else to commend or differentiate it from the rest. Noted some interesting construction techniques that I’m not familiar with though, such as using clay, dung (?) and straw as scree for the outside of the building. Pictures don’t lie. See for yourself.

Another couple of days to Léon, and it gets interesting again. I hope. Sahagun is en route tomorrow. It is a feeder city for the Camino de Madrid….meaning Pilgrim volumes likely to rise.  More pikers, more competition for beds. Ugh! There used to be exclusivity in being an itinerant. No longer, it seems.

It’s hotter than Satan’s toe-nails, even in the shade. Weather is here, wish you were beautiful. But  you’re not.

Day 17 Photo Gallery

I’ve got about two Scaramuccis left on this hike. Oh, sorry. For the unhip and uninformed, a Scaramucci (also called a Mooch) is a measurement of time: approximately 11 days… so I need to be in Nice 3 weeks tomorrow.

Tick tock. Time flies when you’re disconnected but don’t ask me where I’ve been or what I’ve done or when because it all blends into this one big fast-awake-sleepwalking blur. I can barely remember which day of the week it is, let alone where I’ve been or what I’ve seen. Kinda cool. Trippin’ without the expensive, fashionable pharmaceuticals or the employment risk that goes with those habits – so I’ve been told.

As today was almost a carbon copy of yesterday and the day before and the day before – long boring haul, arriving in butt-fuck-back-of-beyond with a big church and no other endearing features, I thought that I’d have little to say today, but au contraire.

It started badly as I endured the buzz-snore harmony that my five lady roommates were so kind as to provide throughout the entire night. It was a trans-Atlantic, Eurovision affair: 2x German (altos), 1x US (soprano) and 1x Irish (booming, basso profundo). Earplugs were no good. The harmony mercilessly pierced the barrier. Only deafness would have protected me.

However, despite the aural setbacks of the night, early on, I thought it could be an auspicious day because a bird crapped on my foot while I was changing socks and a fly flew straight into my piehole as I gulped for air. On that basis, I legged it about 31km, 7km longer than initially planned.

My first segment was 13km, which I enjoyed in the company of Nancy (English pronunciation, not French). Nancy is “Quebeçois” (DO NOT get that wrong, not French, not Canadian…), a former marathon runner who now only does halfs and 10ks (3 months preparation is too much trouble…), she has 15 and 17 year old kids and has been walking for 44 days with another 50 odd left to go. Her hubby joined her for the first week but had to return to work. She worked as a private wealth advisor but was made redundant so time is her friend. This woman could be mistaken for a twenty-something and moves like a Gazelle. She slowed down for me until after breakfast in Sahagun, and then, with compassion, suggested she move on ahead as she was a wee bit faster. Once again, my self-respect is dented, and my ego-damage somewhere between humbled and humiliated. I did catch up with her a short while after breakfast as she re-packed her pack. We walked and chatted a bit more until she put those legs into second gear, and off she went. Ciao.

The second segment was solo to Bercenios del Real Camino, as was the last segment to El Burgo Raneros. Those legs were 10.7km and 7.4km, respectively. Dirt. Scrub. More dirt. More scrub. Nothing to report. Move on.

I berthed for the night at Albergue La Laguna at about 1300. Pretty good going under the circumstances. 31km in 7.5 hours minus 2x 45 mins rest stops equates to about 5km/h. It became hot and sticky at 0900, not the usual 1000, and my new insoles are giving the 4th toe on each foot utter gip. I need to make some adjustments – either trim the insole or cut off the toes. Right now, I’m indifferent, I just need a solution.

Upon checking into La Laguna, I was greeted by a Jimmy Somerville, Pygmy-like, camp-as-a-row-of-tents, pants-hanging-down-his-bony-ass, demi-dwarf with a twisted smile and only one tooth (visible) in his mouth (lower left canine, I think). A couple of decades earlier, this type of appearance coupled with those mannerisms would have screamed “Gay-Plague”. Well, still the same today. That is one weird little man. Anyway, he took my money, gave me the “tour” and went back into his dark hole. I’ll be sleeping face up tonight and I don’t care if I snore…….

….because my roommates are a bunch of noisy Spanish students from the previous crib. They checked in after me, en masse, and had I known of their intentions, I would not have made this accommodation choice. One in particular, is absolutely rank, like something died a week ago under his armpits or in his crotch. How do I tell him that stinking like rotten fish is NOT a PREREQUISITE for doing the Camino? It can, indeed, should, be done hygienically. The technology exists, and I would be more than happy to foot the bill, if necessary. I also need to speak to his mates:  friends shouldn’t let friends get stinky. The (new) Pilgrim Code.

This shrimpy, beardy piker is in the bunk above me, so at least with hot air rising, I may be spared some of the olfactory offence he carries so well. Dear boy, stinky is NOT cool. Through which gutter were you dragged up? Just because you have a Haysoos-style beard and you’re carrying a guitar, doesn’t mean you don’t have to bath, daily, with soap and preferably Teatree Oil. I’m not sure bleach and a wire brush would get him clean, but it would be a start. I bought some lavender essential oil as part of my defence/revenge mechanism. Hope he gets used to it. This is going to be a long night…and definitely an early start tomorrow!

It’s now hotter than a Bedouin’s nut-sack (I’m reliably informed) and yet the Pilgrims continue to stream into town post 1600. The Albergues here are now full. I don’t know where they go, other than further. I think the next stop is Reliegos at about +13km. That’s 2.5 hours at my morning pace (not in the sun) and 4 hours’ pace per the guide book estimate. That’s a LONG way away, late in the day. It perplexes and worries when I see this. An early start has the advantage of lower heat and higher probability of accommodation. My personal rule is finish no later than 1400, preferably 1300. It’s easy to be critical from a comfy chair with a cold beer. I hope I don’t fuck up.

Manaña.

Day 18 Photo Gallery

BEDBUG Alert: Reported at Guacelmo Albergue in Rabanal del Camino and/or Miriam’s Albergue in Las Herrarias/Herreria Albergue near Acebo. STEER CLEAR.

The smelly-Spaniard will wake up surrounded by aromatic-Lavendar wanky-hankies as well as strategically placed daubs on the bed frame and at the foot of his bed. He was one of the few to air his towel out indoors as opposed to outdoors. I think that accounted for much of his lingering, musty aroma. Sunlight is the greatest disinfectant, a lesson our friend has yet to learn.

I left the Albergue at 0530 and arrived at destination at 1245 after a 45 minute and a 60 minute break – I was in no hurry as the crib in Arcahueja opened its doors at 1300 and I was going nowhere once I arrived.

My first lesson of the day was at about 0545. Darwinism categorically doesn’t work. DOES NOT. Disappointingly. I came across group of five middle-aged Italians who were walking across the entire left side of the road, in the pitch dark, with no reflective clothing and one head torch that had a beam as powerful as a dying fairy light. I heard their jibber-jabber ahead of me, rather than saw them. That bad. There was a path to their left (on which I strode with my conspicuous friend, Mr L.E.D. Petzl…) but before the path, there was a three foot deep ditch between road and path. The Eyeties were to all intents and purposes BLIND and almost INVISIBLE to oncoming traffic. Cars were few but they came at pace – driving in that third-world, cavalier/oblivious way, not anticipating dumb, ambulatory flesh strewn across the highway in the dark. At least these window-licking, knuckle-dragging pedestrians were on more towards left side of the road – so they could tumble into the ditch and snap their necks if they had to move quickly…. What possesses adults to do things they would vilify their children for doing? I remain baffled. Incidentally, I haven’t seen them, but then again, I heard no sirens…..

The landscape changed today. More green vegetation, less scrub. A lot of corn and sprinklers, but still a straight shot paralleling the main road. I hiked alone the entire time, though I did see some familiar faces. Most of my comrades are bound for the big city, Léon. I chose a different approach.

It was another 31km today. A strategic decision. Léon would have been easy but I’m berthed about 8km outside, and it will be my next stop tomorrow. I did this so I would have a short day today, a very much shorter day tomorrow, so I can avoid what seems like a large influx into the City today and can enjoy Léon and rest my legs for what will be another two or three 30-35km days to harvest yet more time in Finisterre. If I do this, I’ll arrive at Santiago on the 17th, do the Compostela bells and smells blessing thing on that or the next day day (rude not to, despite not being of the Feinan dogma), then have a further 4 days of walking to Finisterre and Muxia.  That hopefully gives me 2 days of downtime in either location or a reversal to Santiago. That’s the plan as it stands.

As I near Santiago (still a very long way off), I’ve been told that accommodation becomes more scarce because the aged, the wealthy, the pretentious, the pikers and the frauds all come and “do” the last 100km so they qualify for the blessing. “Doing” means getting someone to carry your pack, serial pre-booking of accommodation and arranging a sumptuous meal while the subject plods along the Camino and gets his Platinum Card out afterwards. Shame on you!!  Money cant buy class, happiness or good taste, but it can buy convenience.

My strategy so far, has been to go to the Albergue that is either above the lowest price point or is furthest out of town, so that the more slothful (or youthful and of more limited means) default to the easier/cheaper options. Viz yesterday, it seemed like half of Tokyo was sitting in the gutter at the very first Albergue off the Camino. They all barely had facial hair and an Adam’s Apple. Is judgment inversely related to age? Let’s see at the end of this. I wont pre-judge as I may fall flat on my face…

This whole preamble is a coy precursor to say that I am contemplating a couple of pre-emptive, strategic bookings to assure my creature comforts towards the conclusion of this hike. No need to act now, just thinking. No need for you to judge now either…

Lastly, I am currently sitting in as a cultural and intellectual minority within a little Lithuanian enclave in our rather peculiar Albergue. I’ve spent much of the afternoon discussing BF Skinner, Thorndike, Amos Tversky, Daniel Kahneman, cognitive/behavioral psychology, MK Ultra, compliance and persuasion techniques through aggressive body language and other tools.  I’m completely out of my depth with these 25-30 year olds who have a much more diverse education than myself (and most people I know in the City/Wall Street, for that matter). The Lithuanians have by far the best English vocabulary and most neutral accents of any of the Europeans I have come across. Once again, humbling.

They also regret sacrificing their domestic currency for the €uro. Smarter yet, but bullied/Shanghai’d by the Bosch and Les Hexagones, so damage done. I maintain the view that Europe is still teetering on the brink of collapse, it’s just very well-concealed by an inner-cadre of unelected, self-interested Apparatchika and acolytes. Come on, Mr Erdogan, rescind your immigration agreement and let’s see what happens to the faux show of this love-in. Tick tock.

Later.

Day 19 Photo Gallery

Today, everything is in reverse. Deliberately.

I’m writing this before I’ve checked in, before my laundry. Before my shower. Before any alcohol. My pack is in a locker at the Albergue San Francisco, and I will check in about 1200 with laundry facilities open at 1500, apparently.

Yesterday was a valuable rest day. I had my feet in a basin for 2 hours which helped no end. I didn’t leave the Albergue because there was nothing at all to see (this I knew beforehand). I bought a couple of rounds of drinks for other Pilgrims – the budget of the voluntarily unemployed is still a budget, but it is larger than that of the struggling student. I got a solid 10 hours of uninterrupted sleep. No snoring. No noise. I woke up late, at 0700 and was out at a leisurely pace by 0830 including a shower (usually at destination upon arrival, not prior to departure), two coffees and an agua con gas.

The walk to Léon was less than 8km, easy and, as expected, uninspiringly through an industrial estate. Today is effectively another rest day. Part of the grand design…

Léon is a large town with a lot of visitors and shopping amenities (maybe I can get some new earphones, at last). There are a lot of chav-tourists – women sporting sturdy, tattooed lower legs, saggy bingo-wings, pronounced underbites, lobster-red faces and bad shoes. SUCH BAD SHOES.  Once again, I find myself feeling like just a tourist, something I don’t really like.

 

 

Despite it’s size, it’s 1030 and the town is only just beginning to develop a pulse – away from the various church masses that seem to be going non-stop, I’ve already come across a number of bums with a San Miguel in hand who are sporting trashy, shiny Adidas tops that are more “Dubai-style” than Loewe. I was just assailed my a middle-aged woman working the tables for cash. She didn’t want food, just cash. Same everywhere, except on the Camino.

You can get your fill about Léon from the guidebooks, but let me summarise a couple of factoids, to give you some flavour. There main features for visitors are the Cathedral, the Basilica of San Isidoro and the San Marcos Monastery. There is also a Gaudí museum and a host of other, impressive attractions.

Léon Cathedral has been likened to Chartres Cathedral for its sheer scale and magnificence. It has 125 windows, and 57 oculus that total 1,200 sqm of glass, enough to raise concerns that with so little wall, there is elevated danger of collapse…

The Basilica is built into the old city walls and contains some 12th century frescoes illustrating the New Testament and hunting and pastoral scenes.  Check please… Next…

The San Marcos Monastery has a 100m facade that is majestic yet does little to prepare you for what’s inside. The monastery is one of the top five hotels in Spain.  I haven’t looked up the tariff because I am but a lowly Pilgrim on a budget.

In 1293, Sancho IV decreed that Jews could not own land, and 20 years later, they (les Juifs) were forced to identify themselves by wearing a yellow badge on their clothes. History repeats itself.

Léon has had a colorful history but has declined in relevance over time, particularly from the 14th century when the royal courts moved south, and with them, political influence. Famine and bubonic plague in 1349 didn’t help.

There. A potpourri. Move on… Which is exactly what I plan to do right now…

…I’ve now checked into my €12 crib. I’m in a room with 4 beds that has an ensuite loo and shower. Not bad as things go. I snagged the lower bunk with the two power-points! Ha! They do your laundry here for you, for free, but from 1500. For a modest €5 “thank you” donation, they took my load at 1300 instead of the mandatory 1500, to be returned at 2000. I’ve also scoped out my exit route tomorrow as one of the books and a couple of fellow pilgrims said it could be quite tricky – made more so in the dark.

 

 

As I checked in, I noticed a couple of “pilgrims” hobbling in, triumphantly. Before they paid, they did some serious stretches and then they picked up their rucksacks. Each rucksack had a baggage tag “Roma delegacion” (or some thing similar, but definitely Dago), “Deliver to Albergue San Francisco”. Pikers. Frauds. Pseuds. “Faux-Pilgrims”. I guess, in mitigation, there is that they’re slumming it with us lowlife. Then again, what’s worse, pretending not to be a fraud by sleeping in an Albergue, or ‘coming out’ and checking into the Four Seasons/San Marcos Monastery…? Answer unclear. Deception crystal clear.

I’ve got the wind to my back here… and I don’t like these people. Let me tell you why. They “qualify” as pilgrims just as someone walking because they have a credencial that gets stamped. So, if they get to an Albergue earlier than “proper” pilgrims who may be knackered and barely put one foot in front of the other, they get a bed. Now if that Albergue is full, and the “proper” pilgrim is late, he/she gets no bed and has to walk on. That’s not right.  Technicality obscuring fairness. The faux-pilgrims should be subject to a wait list and only be allowed admission post 1800, a reasonable time to assume most proper pilgrims have completed their labours. No system of rules will ever be ideal, but the faux have an unfair advantage. More on this, no doubt.

As I was looking for shops that sell headphones, I bumped into Nancy (Quebecois Gazelle from earlier post). We walked a little before going in different directions. She seemed to have a good time with two days here, and we’re heading towards the same destination tomorrow. No doubt I’ll see her briefly as she storms past me, me in top gear and she idling in second or third. Wish I had longer legs. And greater lung capacity. And 20lbs fewer. And the list goes on and on… My parents have a lot of genetic issues to answer for… and then there’s the question-mark lingering over my maternal Grandfather’s service in the German army. More another time… and no, that is NOT fiction, embellishment or a joke.

It’s now 1400 and this place (well, the central area) is heaving with tourists. Hordes. Throngs. Droves. Add your own superlatives, you can feel me. I’m having lunch away from the central area because I can’t be faffed with the noise and the constant movement of bodies around me. It’s unpleasant and anything but tranquil. I came to switch off, not get amped up. Note to self: maybe avoid the bigger towns despite their historical significance?  

Sitting next to me is a boring, solemn, older French couple. They’re barely exchanging words and the man seems to have great difficulty with anything but a detached, disinterested expression. She’s fanning herself with a fan, and he’s looking over his specs at her, in silent disparagement. I guess being pussy-whipped does that to you. Get a life people! Enjoy it while you can.

They just served me a succulent pork tenderloin prepared on the rarer side (as I like it), with CRISPS! Never had that combination before, but the Albariño is delicate and complements it nicely. Thibaud, Jenny and another face just passed by. We’re all staying in Albergue San Francisco, it seems. I guess this is some form of reversion to a mean at work, or lowest common denominator.

Davide walked by to say “Ciao”. I just found out his name. He’s the policeman from Italy that I mentioned previously. I found his phone a long time ago now, and managed to return it. He gave me the Camino pin. His Camino ends today. He’s been an endlessly-friendly face on this journey, consistent bon-homie, never anything but a broad grin and genuine love of life. He just oozes it. I’m sad not to see him again. And so it goes…

Is doing something, assistance or interference?

These two photos are of a blind man grooming his guide dog. They’re not great as they don’t really tell the story in full. He took the leash and steering apparatus off the hound and used a brush and glove to groom him and remove fur. Kind and practical in this heat. He then pulled the fur off of the glove and brush, and put it in the garbage can. He was on familiar territory. He obviously had a method, tapping this and that and pacing out this and the other, but he did misplace the leash and collar – though hound was clearly going nowhere. I watched quietly for about a minute, until I was clear that my assistance was not interference. I introduced myself in my pigeon-Spanglish and handed him the leash. He was grateful. No offence. No interference. I removed myself to a discrete distance and watched in case further assistance was needed, but none was. It’s difficult to know whether you help or interfere or even insult. I always prefer to err on the side of insult, albeit with different delivery for different audiences…

Time to get the photos and Vince Cable rant to Doris, mix with the touristas detritus and try as best I can to hide my derision. Tomorrow is an early start and long walk.

“Buen Camino”as we say.

Day 20 Photo Gallery